Chapter Twenty-Four
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Lydia.” Charlotte greets me, giving my hand a firm squeeze as I enter her office. She’s a motherly middle-aged Asian American woman, graying hair cut into a short, no-nonsense bob, her lipstick always a bright shade of pink. Today, she wears one of her power suits in blue, but I notice slippers on her feet and her heels set to one side. Which is one of the things I love about her. “Thanks for coming in on short notice.”
I sit in the chair across from her desk and silence my phone, stealing one more look at the screen before tucking it into my purse. I was supposed to meet up with Mark to go over the completed plumbing work in the new space, but we rescheduled for this afternoon. No one has called in sick at Ooh La Pooch or The Pooch Park, and Anton is busy at his own office. I almost have the headspace for this meeting.
“So, you said you received an actual contract?” I ask.
When we spoke initially last week, she was only fielding questions from someone interested in the Pooches. I’d almost forgotten the whole thing until my phone rang Tuesday and she told me a formal offer was coming in.
“Yep, I have everything here.” She slides a packet of papers to me across the desk. “I know you said you’re not interested in selling, but you should see what’s on the table before we send a formal response.”
Charlotte and I have known each other for years. I found her through the Small Business Administration, and she’s had several businesses of her own. At times, she has acted as my mentor as much as she’s handled legal questions, so I leaf through the packet out of deference to her more than interest. There are pages of terms, clauses, and legalese. I don’t see the point in really reading any of it since I won’t be signing. I know it’s silly because these things happen all the time, but I’m actually a little offended that someone thinks they could run my Pooches better than me.
After a few minutes, Charlotte clears her throat and gestures to one of the sheets in front of me. “The amount they’re offering is there, on the second page.”
“Oh, thanks.” I fumble with the paper she pointed to, scanning down the text, but as soon as I read the figure the blood drains from my face. “Th-this number here?”
“Yes.” She says it with a sort of smile, watching my reaction.
My throat is bone dry, but somehow I swallow.
“I realize this may change how you feel, but there’s no rush to decide. I’ve already told their attorney we need time to consider.” Charlotte hesitates, then continues. “If you do choose to accept, Lydia, there are several things I’d want to negotiate. One of them is the price. We should ask for more than this, but I think they’ll expect?—”
“Wait, more than this ?” I jab at the second page.
“For two successful businesses and another location on the way?” She nods. “I think if we approach this carefully we could get them closer to...” She jots a figure on a sticky note and hands it to me.
The ground feels like it’s sinking out from under me, and I’m grateful to be sitting in a chair. It has been six years since I launched Ooh La Pooch, bathing and grooming my own dogs with just one other employee. The Pooch Park came shortly after that, and demand was so overwhelming I began planning the second location almost immediately. I hadn’t really intended to become a serial entrepreneur, but there is such a market for high-end pet services in Denver, almost everything I’ve tried has been successful, and things just keep growing .
But the amount of money in front of me? It could change our lives.
“Charlotte, that—” I close my eyes, forcing air into my lungs. I keep thinking of the very first customer I had at Ooh La Pooch, a five-pound poodle named Coco, and how her sixty-dollar haircut six years ago could somehow turn into this many zeros.
I wonder what Anton will say. He’s supported me every step of the way, working with me to develop my logos and branding at first, then helping out nights and weekends to build out and paint the first business space. He’s always listened patiently when I’ve had employee problems and even occasionally helps with repairs like the water heater the other day. I can’t imagine even considering this decision without talking it over with him. But then I think about the current state of our marriage, and my hands drop heavily in my lap. How can we discuss the future of my businesses when I don’t even know if we’ll have a future?
I sit a minute, breathing in the cool air of Charlotte’s office.
Eventually, she clears her throat, and I refocus, searching the papers on the desk until my gaze lands on the buyer’s name: ABizCorp, LLC . I furrow my brow. Business names can sometimes be vague, but that sounds like an obvious shell company. Selling out to an eager wannabe business owner would be one thing, but I’m not about to hand over my blood, sweat, and tears from the last six years to some empty passive investment firm. “Do you know anything about who this is?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet, but I’ll find out. So far, I’ve only heard directly from their attorney, but now that they’re serious, I can dig for more.”
“Okay, yeah.” I pull at a loose thread on my sleeve. “I mean, I’d want to know who I’d be selling to— if I sell.” I shake my head, still trying to grasp the concept of that much money. “I’m not sure what I would even do with myself if I sold.”
“With that amount of cash? I’d go to the beach first!” Charlotte cackles. “But seriously, Lydia, you’re a clever, successful woman. You could always start something new.”
“I guess...” My voice trails off as I think of walking away from my little office and all my routines. The supply orders and repairs. My employees. My favorite dogs. Would Tomás and Scarlet and everyone else be upset, or would they understand? “I—I need to think it over for sure.”
“No one expects you to make a decision right now,” she says. “But we’ll need to keep them interested. I already have a list of questions for their attorney. Why don’t you go talk this over with that handsome husband of yours over the weekend and see how you feel?”
I force a smile when she says this, only because I knew it was coming. Charlotte’s single, in her midfifties, and has always made eyes over Anton. He does look like he belongs on the cover of some fitness magazine. And I’ve seen more than a few lust-filled gazes turn sour when I’ve taken his arm and his admirers registered me. I spin my wedding rings on my finger, wondering if I’ll look at him with longing too someday, walking by at some other woman’s side.
“Yeah. Um, if you can buy a little time, that would be great. I think we would like to mull this over together.”
“Of course,” Charlotte says. She leans forward and meets my eyes. “No matter what you decide, this is a big deal. It’s a life-changing amount of money that you’re either going to accept or turn down. Take all the time you need.”
I nod, thanking her as I exit the office, wondering vaguely what Anton and I would even do with all that cash. Would it make us happier? We could buy a bigger house, nicer cars. Maybe we would go to the beach, or the hot springs like he wanted. Or would something this big simply drag things out between us longer? Becoming more to divide and distribute if we still end in divorce?
My brain is in a fog by the time I stumble in the front door at home. I made mistakes on two dog food orders this afternoon and inadvertently made one of my daycare workers cry. On top of that, Scarlet’s back injury flared up, and she had to leave work early. Then one of her clients yelled at me that their dog’s haircut was lopsided. At this point I want nothing more than to snuggle up with Anton on the couch and watch a movie like we used to. Just turn my brain off and be comforted by his presence. Or maybe we should discuss the business purchase offer I’ve been sitting on since this morning. Except every time I entertain the idea of taking the cash and walking away, giving these problems to someone else, I start to cry.
As I close the door, I’m lured by the scents of simmering garlic, tomato, and onions wafting from the kitchen. I find Anton at the stove listening to something on his headphones.
“Smells delicious,” I say. I hadn’t expected him to be home at all. He’s stayed late at the gym the past couple of evenings, which has been sort of a relief, but here he is making dinner in our kitchen with Heartthrob parked at his heels.
“I was getting sick of takeout,” he says, sliding the headphones off one ear.
“Lasagna?” I ask. It’s been a while since he prepared his mother’s recipe. I study his face for signs that something’s changed with Sharon, but the tension in his eyes and across his forehead is unchanged.
He nods in reply.
“Well, my whole day just improved.” I smile at him, and he smiles back, but he keeps layering pasta in the pan, clearly distracted by the task and whatever he’s listening to. I watch him slide the dish into the oven, then glance at the clock. “Guess I’ll take a quick shower if it has to bake.”
It’s a little warm for my striped pajamas after I towel off, so I go with a camisole and sleep shorts, wrapping up in my fuzzy pink robe for extra comfort. Anton glances at me when I walk into the dining room, and I’m truly relieved when his eyes don’t linger anywhere.
“This looks amazing. Thanks for cooking.” I grab some plates and glasses and take a deep breath, hoping for simple conversation.
At that moment, my phone rings on the kitchen counter. Great. I reach for it reflexively, sure it’s some new fire I need to put out—a bout of kennel cough, maybe bickering employees—until I notice Anton following my movement. He’s watching without comment, but there’s a familiar wariness in his posture as I grasp the phone. I hesitate. Both my businesses are closed. Maybe whatever this is can wait until tomorrow. I turn the ringer to silent and leave it sitting on the counter.
“Umm, how was your day?” I ask, settling into a chair .
He arches an eyebrow, then takes a bowl of steaming broccoli off the counter and sits too. “Okay. How about yours?”
I’d been hoping he’d share just a tiny bit before turning it around on me. It’s not like Anton’s usually a chatterbox, but our conversation has been especially spare the last few days since we started this dance around the new elephant in the room.
He serves me a square of lasagna, and I try to think of something else to say. I really want to tell him about the meeting with Charlotte, get his opinion on all the pros and cons of selling or not selling the Pooches. And all that money. But I’m getting the vibe this isn’t the time to talk about work.
“Did I tell you Celia had her baby? A boy. Last week.”
He pauses, hovering his fork over his plate. Something passes through his eyes, but isn’t there long enough for me to read. “Right. Tell her congratulations. She and Adam must be happy.”
I clear my throat. “They named him Gabriel Edward Cohen. After both grandfathers.”
His eyes widen. Anton’s known my mom and sister long enough that I’m sure he’s as surprised to hear this as I was.
“Anyway, I think my mom might be more excited about her new status as a grandma than she is about the kid,” I mutter.
His eyes flicker to mine. It’s a small thing, but with this show of sympathy, it’s clear he’s already guessed my feelings about that situation, and I’m grateful for it.
“Is Marion behaving herself?” he asks carefully.
I shrug. “Honestly, I’ve been avoiding her.”
“Good,” he says with a hint of pride. “I’m glad you’re protecting yourself from her garbage.”
“Poor Celia is probably getting the brunt of it.” I roll my eyes. “Though Mom made it clear we’re next on her grandchild-delivery list.”
The words pass my lips before I think them through, and just like that, I’ve drawn attention to the elephant again. Anton’s been wanting to start a family for a while now. Really, since around the time his mom got sick. But present circumstances have left all of that up in the air.
We both focus on our plates, mechanically making the food disappear. I wish I could walk the conversation back a few minutes. “Um, have you spoken to Seth? Is your mom still doing better?” I ask.
Anton pauses, his expression darkening. “Ah, yeah. The new place is better, but...” He sighs. “The doctors think she’s been having, like, mini-strokes.”
I set my fork down and study him. “What does that mean?”
A line cuts across his forehead. “Nothing, really. It’s just part of the progression.”
I reach out, placing my hand over his, and my skin tingles where we touch. He gives me a sharp look, and I think he’s going to snatch his hand away, but his jaw—no, his whole body—stiffens, and he remains as he is.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
I sit there, wondering if I ought to lean in, offer him a hug or something more than a pat on the hand. His comment about our marriage being more of a friendship still haunts me. But I hesitate too long.
He exhales and stands. “Are you done with your plate?”
“Um, yes.” I jump up. “I’ve got the dishes. This was delicious, Anton, thank you. We should really cook more often.”
I take the plates out of his hands, washing up the mess in the kitchen while he takes Heartthrob out in the yard and throws a rope toy for him. I take extra time scrubbing all the pots and pans and loading the dishwasher. Once I’ve wiped down all the counters, the stove, and even the cabinets, I realize it’s gotten dark out and my husband and dog are still outside.
There’s a window in the kitchen that looks out onto the patio in our postage-stamp backyard. I catch the glow of Anton’s phone out there at our little table, and my gut twists. When we agreed to thirty days, he promised not to go back on Unmatched. But we’ve been spinning our wheels for three days. Would he actually return to it this soon, and practically right in front of me? I peer out the window, squinting through the dark. His back is to me, and I can just make out the screen over his shoulder. My breath pauses as I watch him scroll.
He’s reading some kind of article. Not browsing for girls.
I exhale and head to our bedroom. It is the strangest, most uncomfortable feeling, sharing space with someone you care deeply about when it feels like there’s some sort of wall between you. Since our conversation in the park, we have gone to bed, woken up, been to work, and returned home three times. The needle hasn’t budged on our relationship at all. I look into the mirror above our dresser and frown. Caprice suggested I try to find what used to work , but I’m still not sure what that is.
I hear Anton and Heartthrob come inside. The dog runs to greet me, but my husband stops in the bathroom. I glance at the bed, a familiar knot forming in my stomach over what will or won’t happen there. I toss my robe on the chair and quickly slip under the covers to at least prepare myself before he comes in. Anton follows a few minutes later, and maybe he thinks I’m already asleep, because he doesn’t say anything. I relax at this possibility, which is quickly followed by a flood of guilt. We agreed we’d work on our sex life. So why do I just want to roll over and go to sleep?
Anton’s as far to his side of the bed as he can probably be without falling off, but he’s awake, still looking at his phone. I shift around, adjust my pillow, try to broadcast my consciousness. I suppose I could just sit up and suggest we have sex, but I don’t want it to seem forced. On impulse, I reach up and push the straps of my camisole over my shoulders, slipping my arms out and pulling the fabric down. Exposing my breasts under the covers but not leaving me totally nude. Now if Anton reaches over, he’ll find a surprise. I smile to myself, clear my throat loudly, and lie still. Waiting, staring up at the ceiling in the dark.
Minutes go by. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move.
But I’m ready.
His phone clicks locked after a little while, and the room goes fully dark. The bed shifts as he moves around, and I tense up, sure that his tits-radar or whatever will tell him I’m over here half naked. Or maybe he’ll at least brush against me and put it together. Instead, he just burrows down into the covers without coming any closer.
I bite my lip. Maybe he’s not in the mood.
If he was, wouldn’t he reach for me? I push the straps back up and roll over too, trying to get comfortable on the pillow. Maybe I can just sleep tonight after all and we’ll work on things later. Tomorrow. I close my eyes and try to relax, listening to our mingled breathing. But after a while, to my utter chagrin, I realize I wish he had found my surprise. Had wanted to come searching for it. I actually, almost, sort of wanted him to.
A little pang shoots through my chest.
I am definitely doing something wrong.